by John Dolan
Ares laughs at her: “Nyaaah! Stupid woman, let herself get cut by a little human!” After gloating a while, he tosses her the reins of his chariot, a fancy, unpleasant thing—all covered with gold but stinking of old blood.
Afroditi steps in, holding the reins with one hand and moaning, “Ow! Ow! My wrist!” as she flies up to the overworld.
Afroditi runs to her mother Dione and falls on her knees, crying, “Look, mother! Look what a mere human did to me!” Her mother wipes away the ichor, and tries to comfort her daughter as discreetly as she can; Hera and Athena are watching. They both hate Dione, a lesser wife. So Dione strokes her daughter’s bleeding wrist; one touch of her mother’s hand and Afroditi’s fine, clear skin is perfect again, the pain gone. But she’s still in shock; men never behave so rudely with her. She’s still weeping, and her mother tries to comfort her, whispering, “Hush, child. We gods have to put up with worse than this. I’ve told you a thousand times, humans are nothing but trouble! Hush now, you’ll forget all about it soon …”
Athena announces as loudly and rudely as she can: “Oh, look over there, father Zeus! Do you see? The slut-goddess seems to have hurt her poor little hand somehow! Perhaps she was trying to make some Greek wives go with Trojan men, and cut her wrist on one of the women’s brooch-pins as she tried to drag her off to Troy! The poor little slut is bleeding!”
Zeus chuckles. “Afroditi, you know better than to play war, a sweet girl like you! Leave all that to the tough ones, Ares and Athena. You stick to love affairs.”
Down in the dust of Earth, Diomedes is still trying to finish off Aeneas. He knows Aeneas is somewhere in front of him, but Apollo is shielding him, blurring Diomedes’ view. So Diomedes stabs blindly at the ink-cloud in front of him. Three times he tries to jab his spear through the murk, but the fourth time, Apollo, tired of this stupid game, says one huge word: “Stop.” The command penetrates every cell of Diomedes’ body, dousing his rage instantly. He backs away, not afraid but not foolish enough to oppose Apollo directly.
Apollo takes Aeneas, still writhing in pain, to Pergamus, the hill where the gods are watching the fight. Apollo calls his sister Artemis, who slinks over in a strange half-crouch and passes her hands over Aeneas, whispering alien words.
Apollo makes a dummy of Aeneas and throws it onto the field, for the Greeks and Trojans to fight over, then takes his seat next to Ares and lets his big, stupid brother feel his glare for a few moments. Ares understands; Apollo is angry that Ares, fooled by Athena, has stopped helping the Trojans. Ares, realizing he’s been duped by that clever girl yet again, sighs and jumps several miles, down to the Trojan lines.
He knows what he has to do: Get Hektor, Troy’s best fighter, back in the battle. So Ares stands behind Hektor, focusing the wrath of the Trojans on him. Every man in the Trojan horde suddenly wonders at the same moment, “Where’s Hektor? He’s supposed to be our best man, and he’s hanging back!”
Sarpedon, the King of the Lycians, runs up to Hektor in a rage, shouting, “What are you doing, hanging back, Hektor? You’re losing your people! You expect us Lycians to fight for you, when you won’t fight for your own city? Aeneas is down, your best man, and you still let us foreigners do your fighting for you! Either you fight now, or you lose your allies, your town, everything!”
Hektor is shamed. He takes up his spear and runs toward the Greeks, Ares with him, a stink of blood, a smeared shadow. Where Ares passes, the Trojans find themselves thinking of slitting someone’s throat, how easy it would be. Or how sweet it would be to jam a spear right through some Greek’s liver, take his expensive armor and sell it for a nice profit. How easy, how pleasant, to kill and kill and kill.
The Trojans are transformed. They form up in a tight shield wall and charge like a storm wave. Ares darkens the air around them, so the Greeks can’t aim at them. They come on like a bank of clouds from the sea, unstoppable. And Hektor is everywhere now, killing where he pleases. He’s killing by pairs, not wasting time on one man at a time. He yanks both driver and spearman out of a chariot, killing them before they hit the ground. Team by team, chariot by chariot, Hektor sweeps forward, and the Greeks pull back.
Diomedes still has Athena’s gift: He can see gods today. He sees Ares’ bloody hands moving under Hektor’s, slashing faster than mortals can make out.
Diomedes yells: “Back! Hektor’s got a god behind him! Pull back, but keep your shields up, face front!”
The Greeks don’t need to be told twice. Hektor’s a dangerous fighter even without divine help. With a god behind him, he’s death walking. So the Greeks, stumbling backward over the blood and corpses, draw close, shield to shield, and give Hektor plenty of room.
Aeneas, lying on Pergamus, stares up at Apollo’s fierce sister Artemis as she heals his wounds. She is no friend of men, and works on Aeneas with a lynx’s snarl on her face. But as she hiss-whispers over him, Aeneas feels his smashed hip-bone fusing as easily as a pot on the wheel. The pain—was there pain? He feels no pain at all, no injury. The lynx-face stares coldly at him, making sure he’s fully healed, then hisses something to her brother and vanishes.
Apollo strides over to Aeneas, gestures—and Aeneas is standing up. Apollo reaches out, takes Aeneas around the waist in one hand and throws him all the way to the battlefield. Aeneas lands softly on his feet, unhurt, in the middle of the Trojan shield wall as it rolls over the Greeks. His comrades can’t believe Aeneas is with them again; they all thought he was dead. They cheer even louder to have him back with them, as they stab the fleeing Greeks.
Aeneas celebrates his return by killing two Greeks, twins, vassals of Agamemnon’s family, the Atreus-sons. These twins were born together and now they die together at the point of Aeneas’ spear.
This enrages Tlepolemus, one of Herakles’ sons. Tlepolemus is the tallest of the Greeks, a fine man, not afraid of anyone. He calls out Sarpedon, who’s leading the Lycian wing of the Trojan force.
Everyone stops to watch. This will be good. Both men have god-blood, Zeus-blood. Herakles was Zeus’ son, so Tlepolemus is Zeus’ grandson. Sarpedon is Zeus’ son. So it’s two of Zeus’ bastards facing off.
It’s an easy bet, if you know the bloodlines. Always bet on a god’s son against a mere grandson.
Tlepolemus starts by loud-talking Sarpedon, never a good idea: “Sarpedon, what are you doing here? You’re no Trojan! Why are you fighting for these people? You Lycians are better at drinking wine and playing with concubines than fighting. I don’t think you’re Zeus’ son at all. You don’t look it, you fop! My father was Herakles; just look at me! I bred true, not like you!”
Sarpedon smiles, says quietly: “Do you see this spear, Tlepolemus? You’ll be seeing it close up very soon. Say hello to Hades when he welcomes you to his kingdom.”
They throw at the same time. Sarpedon’s throw is perfect, right through the Adam’s apple. Tlepolemus falls dead.
But Tlepolemus’ throw wasn’t bad either, though he died too soon to see the result. His spear got Sarpedon on the meat of the thigh, and scraped along the femur. Sarpedon screams; the pain is unbelievable, bronze ripping along bone. His followers are stunned; they didn’t think Zeus’ son could be hurt. They finally pick Sarpedon up and start carrying him out of the fight, too bewildered to pull the spear out of his thigh first. So Sarpedon, already in agony, feels the spear scrape every rock along the path.
Odysseus saw Tlepolemus die, and like all short men, his reverence for the very tall is scandalized. He wants to avenge the giant Tlepolemus, so he charges, his men behind him, down on the rabble of Lycian fighters left behind now that Sarpedon, their champion, has been carried out of the battle. Odysseus kills four, six, eight of the Lycians. They’re as easy to kill as lambs, now that Sarpedon’s gone.
Hektor hears that Sarpedon’s been hurt and runs over to him. They’ve laid him on the ground, spear still in his thigh. Sarpedon lifts himself up on an elbow and groans, “Hektor, please, don’t let me die in Greek hands. I know I won’t live t
hrough this war, the diviners told me that before I left home, but at least let me die inside the walls, not out here in the dust.”
Hektor nods and runs at the Greeks, killing at will.
It’s been the longest, bloodiest day anyone can remember. By now, both sides are exhausted, weary of killing. The two shield walls face each other, panting, uncertain. If they had an excuse, they’d all go home.
Hera is watching, and this emergent pacifism disgusts her. She fumes, “Look at them, standing around like reeds in a marsh! Useless men! Useless mortals! Athena, you and I need to get down there and take Ares out of the fight!”
Athena nods, and because she wishes it, her chariot is instantly present, ready. She takes the spear, and Hera grabs the reins. They make one quick stop to get Zeus’ permission before descending to the dust plain.
Hera pulls up at Zeus’ throne, scolding, “Aren’t you ashamed, letting Ares, that filthy war pimp, kill so many fine Greeks?”
Zeus shrugs. It’s war, it’s a messy business. What does she expect?
Hera gets to the point: “Will you let my daughter—our daughter—go down there and punish Ares, or not?”
Zeus has another gulp of nectar and nods. It’s not worth getting in a fight with these two, not to protect a swine like Ares. He answers, “Yes, let Athena take care of him; she’s been beating him up since they were kids!”
Hera flicks the reins and the chariot arcs down to earth, thundering across the wide sky. As they enter the thick, warm air of the human world, the chariot falls away unneeded; the two goddesses fall toward Troy on their own.
Hera floats over the Greeks, and her voice goes right to the pit of every man’s stomach: “Greeks, can’t you fight on your own? Or do you only act brave when you have Akilles in front of you? Look at you, backed against the beach, up against the bows of the ships!” The Greeks, shamed by this giant woman’s voice, sigh and face the Trojans, ready to level their spears again.
Athena falls toward Diomedes. She pretends to be a mere human, but she doesn’t pretend very hard. She gave Diomedes the gift of seeing gods through any disguise; he knows who she is.
He’s tired. Athena, playing the old retainer, grumbles: “It’s a shame, you know ... I knew your father, Diomedes. Yes, he was only a short fellow, but he could fight. He would never slack off like this. Ah well, it’s a shame …”
Diomedes is angry. She’s not satisfied, after all the killing he’s done for Athena today? He shouts: “Goddess, I’ve done exactly what you told me to do. You said, ‘Wound Afroditi’ and I jabbed her, got her in the wrist. But you also told me, ‘If the other gods appear, back off.’ Well, Ares is here; you know that yourself! So I ordered my men to withdraw. Tell me what I did wrong!”
Athena laughs hoarsely and shows her true self, changing from a small human into a huge, lank shape, all hand and arm. She picks up Diomedes’ chariot driver with one hand and tosses him far away, roaring in a jolly voice, “I’ll drive!”
The same huge hand lifts Diomedes into the chariot. The axles creak with the weight of goddess and hero.
The chariot is already moving, faster than horses can run, as she roars happily, “Diomedes, I only spoke harshly just now to put heart in you. You don’t need to back away from Ares, that blood-licking jackal! All of us gods despise him. I want you to hurt him today, worse than you hurt my sister. I’m going to give you a perfect shot at him.”
They’re driving straight at Ares, who’s hunched over a dead Greek warrior doing what he does best: robbing the dead, tossing the body for valuables. Diomedes can see Ares’ true face. It’s worse than he imagined—the rotting skull of a jackal, covered with a halo of flies.
Ares sees Diomedes coming at him and grins. Athena has hidden herself from Ares’ sight, so the big fool sees only a suicidal human taking him on in single combat. This will be a fine kill! Leaping up like a carrion fly, Ares falls on Diomedes’ chariot, his blood-smeared spear already in flight, right at Diomedes’ heart.
It’s a perfect throw. But Athena, with a flick of her mind, deflects Ares’ spear, sails it high over Diomedes.
Now it’s Diomedes’ turn. It’s a decent throw, but without Athena’s help, it would never have hurt Ares. He is a big god, and it takes a lot to hurt him. But Athena’s huge arm grabs Diomedes’ spear out of the air and sends it burrowing through Ares’ armor, right into the groin. That’s her little joke, the groin. She digs the spear-point in, squirms it around a little to increase the pain, the mangle-factor, and pulls it out, puts it back in Diomedes’ hand.
Ares falls, clasping his groin like a shy slave on the auction block. And then the pain hits him. Gods are not used to pain; they don’t like it. Ares screams.
The scream is so terrible that every man on the field freezes. Many of them go down, curled up with their hands over their ears, trying to keep the sound out. The others, the brave ones who stood there and took it, will never be quite the same. The sound is something they’ll remember till they’re old, and it will come back to them at the wrongest times, watching their favorite sons grow up, lying in bed after a warm day. They’ll lie there, hearing Ares’ scream again, and their wives will look at them and not even want to ask what they’re remembering. If they try to explain, they’ll say something like, “Remember that stray dog that got its belly ripped by our hounds? Or that time that bald slave caught a rat, and thought it’d be funny if he squeezed it to death in front of us? Remember? That rat, the sound it made—I had to cuff the slave to get him to finish it off, stop the noise. That kind of sound, or maybe the way a rabbit screams, or one time, when we took a village, there was a child …” and he’ll stop, not wanting to tell that story, and she won’t ask any more questions.
There’s nothing to pity in Ares’ scream, because he’s the foulest god of all. But his pain is huge, it’s the whole world, and somehow it’s just so horrible that eventually, as the men listen to its echoes, they start laughing uncontrollably, laughing too hard to fight.
Then they go silent again, because Ares’ scream has turned into a black swarming glob, huge as a rain-cloud, that writhes around the god in his pain—and then the black glob roars up to the overworld, and there’s silence on the battlefield again.
Ares has gone to demand justice from Zeus. Which Zeus, and the rest of the gods, find very amusing. Ares? Wanting justice? Ares, who presided over every massacre and rape since the beginning of the world, and enjoyed every second of them?
And now he wants justice—justice! After getting stabbed … by a woman … his own sister! In the groin! It’s a great moment for the whole family—they just can’t stop laughing. As Ares approaches, squelching with his hands over his wet, bleeding groin, Zeus draws out the pleasure, pretending not to know what happened: “Well, Ares, what seems to be the problem? And please, don’t drip on my fine marble floor.”
Ares is furious: “The ‘problem’ is your crazy daughter, Athena! She’s out of her mind! She’s got these Greeks stabbing gods now! When did we start allowing that? Little humans pricking us like bulls at a sacrifice? That gender-bent bitch has gone crazy! First she gets poor Afroditi cut on the wrist, and then—I can’t believe it—she latches onto her chosen human Diomedes again, swoops him and his chariot up in her slipstream, sends the man roaring straight at me—and cheating, too, because I would’ve hit him right in the heart with my spear but she went and deflected it—and then she takes his spear, which would never have hit me, grabs it, right in the air, and—well, just look what she did! Look at it!”
And Ares, not even noticing the giggles of the other gods, takes away his hands to show the bloody groin, the deep, twisting wound down where the belly meets the baby-maker. His ichor is dripping onto the glowing floor of Zeus’ court, not clear gold like other gods’, but running dark, with a bad smell.
Zeus is disgusted. “So you come whining to me? You, throat-slitter? Back-stabber? Baby-killer? I wish you’d never been born. You’ve got your mother’s mean heart, but not her courage.
You can’t even take the pain you love to dish out. If you were anybody else, you’d be lying under this floor like the Titans, but what can I do? You’re my son. So …”
Zeus claps his hands. “Healer, fix this fool up. I’m sick of listening to him.”
The healer bows to Zeus, applies a magic salve, and Ares’ wound vanishes along with the pain. Ares sneaks off, just smart enough to get out of his father’s sight before the old man loses patience.
6
FAMILY
NOW THAT ARES IS GONE, the Trojans’ courage drains away. The Greeks, seeing them waver, attack. Ajax smashes through the Trojan line like a boulder. His spear goes right through the helmet of the biggest Thracian warrior. Darkness was that Thracian’s last thought.
With their shield wall broken, the Trojans scatter. Their chariots are wheeling, trying to get away from the Greek spears. It’s easy to kill them now. Diomedes jumps up on a chariot driven by a rich Trojan, a man famous for his generous feasts. His hospitality doesn’t do him any good today; none of his guests show up to help him, and Diomedes spits him on his spear, throws him out of the chariot, then kills his driver and whips the chariot back to his own men, a fine prize.
All the richest, proudest men in Troy are fleeing now, stirring up so much dust they can’t see where they’re going. Adrestus, a high-born Trojan, drives over a tussock, breaking his chariot’s axle. He goes flying, lands in the dirt, and looks up to see Menelaos standing over him. All Adrestus’ pride is gone. He grabs Menelaos’ knees with both hands, begging, “Please, take me alive, Menelaos! My father is rich, he’ll pay any ransom you ask!”
Menelaos hesitates, but his brother Agamemnon comes running over, screaming, “Kill him! What, are you soft on these Trojans? You, of all people? Remember your wife?”
Menelaos scowls. He can’t look weak, not in front of his big brother, but it’s very bad luck to kill someone who’s put their hands on your knees. He comes up with a neat solution: lifting Adrestus to his feet, he shoves the Trojan toward Agamemnon, who drives his spear into Adrestus’ side, then plants his foot on the body to yank it out.
